WHILST IT IS PRIME

by: Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)

RESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,

In whose cote-armour richly are displayed

All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,

In goodly colours gloriously arrayd--

Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,

Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;

Tell her the joyous time will not be staid,

Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;

Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,

To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;

Where every one, that misseth then her make,

Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.

Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;

For none can call againe the passèd time.

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